Installation 6: A Hallway Encounter (you may want to read Installation 5)

Although she'd always meant to be so much more, Phoebe was an office worker. In the mornings she got up, showered, put on wool skirts paired with tights and then ate breakfast while watching the Today Show.She didn't remember anything she'd seen on the news even ten minutes after shutting the television off-- nothing about plastic surgery, emotional affairs or college hazing rituals stuck as she moved out the door, concentrating on getting to the bus stop. Most passengers on the bus read the paper or listened to music on headphones but Phoebe did nothing but sit, hands folded in her lap, and eavesdrop on the same pair, an older woman and a younger woman, as they chatted each morning. Their conversations weren't even that interesting and yet she found she couldn't resist listening.

Young Woman: And so I told him, we can't go on like this. We need stability...

Old Woman: Yes, you need to feel like you can trust him.

Young Woman: It's not my fault his first wife was a lunatic and they ran up all those credit card bills. But that's over now.

Old Woman: She sure sounds crazy.

Young Woman: Did I tell you what Hannah did last night? She came downstairs in her swimming suit and danced around the living room. I made a casserole and we all watched Finding Nemo.

Old Woman: That sounds nice.

And in a vague way, it did sound nice but it also sounded like death by suffocation. Phoebe looked out the window at the houses and almost every one had a cat in a window looking back at her.

It was a short ride to work, to the museum, and in no time at all she was sliding into her seat at her white desk, in a white room with only one large print mounted on the wall. The print was of a maze of falling leaves that could drive one crazy if any serious amount of time was spent trying to unravel it. Phoebe checked e-mail. She made file folders and put papers into them. She spent an inordinate amount of time at the copy machine, standing and making copies while flexing her knees to keep from getting stiff. She proofread press releases and made phone calls for people; calls they found too odious to make themselves. She took phone messages too, writing on pink pads labeled “While You Were Out.” While you were out, she thought, the world kept spinning. While you were out, people called and wanted to talk to you. Big deal.

Not that she had a bad attitude, because she didn't. She didn't think too much or too deeply about her work and that was the key to happiness. She did her work and offered her opinion when it was asked for and then she went home. She stood up at 5:00 and put on her striped scarf and vintage car coat, slid on her gloves and said goodnight to everyone. She went out the glass door that separated her department from the hallway and went all the way out to the bus stop so that she could do the morning ride in reverse, already thinking about what she might do that evening. She might make some sketches or sew a skirt or go to a bar to listen to music. She might get into bed with a good book or watch a documentary on orcas or lemurs on PBS. It was not a bad life.

But then one evening, weeks after she'd started at the museum, she finally saw the man from her first day at the copier. He'd come in to use the machine and she'd sent him away abruptly, not wanting him to stand around and watch her make her hundreds of copies. Since that day she wondered, while lying in bed at night, why she'd suddenly cared so much what a stranger thought about her work, much less someone who was clearly about to make copies himself.

She watched the man approach. He had sandy hair, too long, glasses and stayed close to the wall as he walked. His face remained blank even as she made eye contact.

“Hello.” She smiled.

“Hi.” His face seemed to soften a bit.

“I'm Phoebe. I work in Marketing and PR. I've seen you.”

“Yes, I know.” His mouth remained open but it no longer worked properly; it moved but produced no sound, as if he were struggling with what to say next.

Phoebe felt she had no choice but to keep striding towards the lobby and the guard station, to turn in her badge for the night. There was the bus to consider, after all.

“I'm Karl!” He yelled this down the hallway. It sounded more like a declaration than an introduction.

She half-turned to glance over her shoulder and saw that he stood still, watching her go, a look of disbelief on his face. She lifted one gloved hand and gave him a wave, one big wave. Outside, she ran over frosty sidewalks to get to the bus stop where people stood in clumps, blowing into their hands to stay warm. When the bus came, she swung into a seat by a window and looked back at the museum, her only thought that Karl was still inside, walking down the hall.

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